


made, plain for all to see

by dualce



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Gift Giving, M/M, Multi, smithing like a boss, talkin' bout metal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dualce/pseuds/dualce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hunts for good metal. It is difficult to find, made more difficult by the shop owner, whom Thorin must convince to let him take for his own purposes. But his skill as a smith, many times that as the most experienced man, gives him some latitude. He has cached away some pieces; good, thick iron and several lustrous alloys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hold promise

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the hobbit [kink meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/702.html?thread=435646#t435646) that I did awhile ago, originally posted on tumblr. Request was "Thorin as a blacksmith, making see something as a surprise for a lover - a sword, armor, or maybe a wedding ring?"
> 
> I know very little about smithing, although I do know a bit about forging and welding, so hopefully the details don't fall too far flat!
> 
> First part could be read more gen/family-centric, but definitely the second part is Durincest.

A ring would be most fitting.

 

After a moment, Thorin recognizes his unintended pun and allows a ghost of a smile to curl at his lips. In the rear of the shop, with his back to the entrance, there is no one to see. Whatever it is, it will fit perfectly, whether settled on a finger, gripped in hand, or worn around the flesh.

 

A sword, perhaps? He looks at the length of steel that is already in his hand and lays it flat against the anvil, twisting it so the edge will bevel as he hammers down. A sword is practical, useful, necessary. The sword pulls forward in his hand as he bears down on it with a hammer, and within a moment, the edge breaks, a tiny chip flicking off into space.

 

Worthless, Thorin thinks, a growl echoing through his lips, lost amid the clattering reverberations of metal striking metal. No sword from here would last a fortnight. If he was in Erebor, he would toss this useless scrap into the hollows and let the mountain reclaim it. But men seem to understand the workings of precious ore very little, though they desire it as much as dwarves, saving every little trifle, reusing every piece until it wears thin too quickly and shatters. So he places the metal into water, douses it cool, and sets it to the side, to be remade into something else. A buckle. A coin. A ladle, although Thorin would hardly deign to put such inferior quality in his mouth.

 

He hunts for good metal. It is difficult to find, made more difficult by the shop owner, whom Thorin must convince to let him take for his own purposes. But his skill as a smith, many times that as the most experienced man, gives him some latitude. He has cached away some pieces; good, thick iron and several lustrous alloys.

 

The sheets of alloyed metal hold promise; light enough to wear, strong enough to protect. But too small, not enough to cover the softness of flesh, or shield a span of bone. Thorin would wear it only in times of desperation, and never allow it to touch a friend, much less the ones who hold his heart. It is mithril that would make a worthy armor, and a worthy gift.

 

Something else, then. A token to wear around one's neck, Thorin's claim made plain for all to see? But he knows he is not the kind to make such pretty charms, not with patience or with skill for such small, delicate things. In truth, the crowns and bracelets and drippings of jewels have all been crafted, laying in wait in Erebor, and Thorin will be quick to wrap them around himself and his beloveds when he takes back his home.

 

So what, then? This leaves him with fewer options then when he had begun, and he finds himself working hard at a spearhead until it takes on a lozenge shape, allowing his mind to wander until it is drawn back to his first thought. A small thing, not a ring, but another symbol, pleasing to look at but not overwhelmingly bold, enhancing the same such beauty that it adorns, black and blonde hair alike.

 

Already the shape takes form in his mind, gold-tinted and shining as they catch light, emblems of Durin etched into the simple band, clasped around long locks of hair. A challenge, for he is not gifted in crafting subtle, insubstantial pieces. But it holds his mind and thoughts, and while he works at the hair clasps, he does not linger on his fury and his bitterness and his longing for home, but he does not smile. Not until the end, when the sweat lines his brow, and the clasps fit neatly cradled in the palm of his hand. Then, Thorin thinks of his beloveds, and smiles.


	2. laid claim

The clasps are wrapped together in plain cloth, one gift for two, as it should be. Thorin schools his face as he opens the door to the small house they have taken lodging in. His nephews are huddled by a candle, faces pressed close to a scrap of paper that they abandon as they hear him enter. Kili is the quickest, long legs taking him to Thorin's side where he sketches a little bow in welcome and smiles widely.

 

"Uncle," he says warmly, and Thorin feels himself soften. He touches a soft, beardless cheek, which Kili takes as a sign to come closer and press himself against him in a hug. Thorin returns the touch, even though he should not indulge such whims so often. It is hard to convince himself of that when he holds the gifts for them in his palm. Instead, he embraces Kili with one arm as he watches Fili take measured steps across the room until his oldest nephew stands before him, and bows. A little deeper, and more respectful than his younger brother, but then Fili quickly insinuates himself into the hold Kili has on Thorin, and Thorin allows the smile he has been holding back to bloom.

 

He does not press a kiss to the crowns of their heads, as he thinks about doing, but straightens his spine until they know enough to step back.

 

"I have something for you."

 

Kili brightens, and Fili looks interested. Both their hands come out to take Thorin's gift, and Kili tears off the string until the cloth loosens and unfolds.

 

"They match!" Kili says, delighted, and Fili smiles as he says, "Thank you."

 

"Here," Thorin says, taking one clasp in his hand and turning Fili so his back is facing Thorin. He pulls at the long, golden strands, taking a moment to untangle them before deftly twisting a partial braid, and sliding the clasp through the hair and clipping it shut.

 

"Me too!" Kili wiggles in front of him, and turns impatiently. Fili nudges him, and Kili flashes Thorin an apologetic smile over his shoulder. "Please?"

 

Thorin does the same, gathering several strands in a short plait before Fili hands him the other clasp, and Thorin clips it into place.

 

"Turn," Thorin says softly, and Kili and Fili spin so that Thorin can see his crafts decorating them, as if they were like crowns, or jewels, or gold. But not; barely there, small in contrast to the waves of hair they settle into. Thorin is aware of the meagerness of his makings, small and insignificant. They would fetch almost nothing if they were sold, and not a single dwarf with an eye for value would pay a coin for them. The real riches lie in Erebor, and Thorin cannot give them anything but facsimiles, weak copies of his love.

 

Thorin is unaware his hands are still tight on his nephew's shoulders until Fili's hand steals across his and rests there. Kili is looking at him with wide, searching eyes, and Thorin releases them.

 

"Thank you!" Kili immediately jumps on him and buries his head into his chest. Thorin looks down -- not as far as he once had to, long ago -- and can see his clasp, there, nestled in Kili's long black hair. Then Kili is bounding across the room, until he is in front of the mirror, craning his head to catch a glimpse of his metalwork.

 

Fili's hand steals back into his, and Thorin drags his attention away from Kili and bends his head.

 

"Thank you, uncle," Fili says simply and heartfelt. "They will be treasured." With that, he tugs Thorin down, and catches Thorin's lips with his own. In no short time, Fili's other hand tangles in edge of his beard, along his jaw, and his tongue inquiringly traces the crease of Thorin's mouth, begging to enter. Thorin makes a sound, or rather the sound is pulled from him, unwillingly, and he buries his hands in Fili, one on his back, pulling him close, the other cradling his head, bending his smaller body against Thorin's.

 

The metal edges of the clasp dig into Thorin's palm, and any reluctance or misapprehension over his gifts fades for a moment. Fili is soft and warm against his body, a gift in its own right, and Kili is already at his side, pressing against him and demanding his turn.

 

Thorin loosens his hold on Fili, but keeps his hand resting against the clasp, and gathers Kili close to press an equally demanding kiss against his lips. His other hand slides back behind his head, so he can rub Kili's clasp between his fingers, and he softens his stance against the metalwork. It is not as he wishes it; none of it is. But they are his, and he is theirs, and the clasps are enough until Erebor is theirs again.

 

Until then, Thorin will see his claim on them, and others will too, and that is enough.


End file.
